


Much Improved

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Humor, at least Enjolras's brand of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre and Enjolras continue to think of ways to spend Combeferre's 700 francs. An outtake from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1827307">Prize and Prudence.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Much Improved

“Courfeyrac has presented me with ten different types of waistcoat,” Combeferre’s resigned voice drawled from the the window. “I find myself increasingly receptive to getting them all.”

Combeferre considered his predicament as he idly caught the last cool breeze of spring. The 700 francs that had come into his possession should have brought any man great pleasure, but to Combeferre it had only become a source of anxiety. His chin dipped to his chest; his arms crossed together, and were it not for the billowing white curtains framing his sides like wings, he would have been the very picture of a defeated man. Instead, Enjolras thought him a contemplative philosopher, and from his claimed perch on the bed, offered a notion.

“For all we know, Courfeyrac may have a share in the profits. It is his tailor; I would not be surprised.” He tilted his head as if truly considering this, and after a while, voiced his more relevant inquiry. “Are you so eager to get rid of it all? For such a large amount, one should exercise prudence.”

“It has been with my solicitor for almost a year,” Combeferre sighed. “I’ve thought of no good reason to spend it, and at this point, I’d simply prefer if it were off my hands!”

“Perhaps you should go to the theatre.” Enjolras perked up at the idea. He turned to his side and cradled his head on the heel of a palm, excitement growing on his face. “I would offer to accompany you, but you know I find no pleasure in such luxuries. Now Courfeyrac—”

“And here you said I should exercise prudence,” Combeferre countered. He heaved a deep sigh. “I admire and enjoy the art form, but to spend the money on an impulse…”

Combeferre left the sentence unfinished, as if unable to fathom it, yet Enjolras saw his gaze wander to the top level of his bookshelf. Enjolras knew what would be there, and in his mind’s eye saw the complete libretti of "La Muette de Portici" safely tucked between the pages of a Fourier. He let out a sigh and rose from the bed. When he had come to stand before his friend, Combeferre had turned to him again.

“Perhaps impulse is not the right word — that would imply a lack of consideration.” He placed a firm hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “With your limited resource and of course the labor and material to have them framed, you can only purchase a few sections of the score, and among the overture, the whole of the first act, the finale, and your favorite aria, you’re bound to employ a lot of consideration before making your purchase. So you see,” he smiled, “it would not be a mere impulse.”

At this unforeseen speech, Combeferre had been taken aback, and he now regarded his friend with confusion along with disbelief. And wonder.

“Enjolras.”

“Hmm?”

“Were you… attempting a joke?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He had looked so sincere and so pleased with himself that there was no other possible reaction but genuine, unabashed laughter. Combeferre’s shoulders shook and he doubled over in a fit. A gendarme could have broken in and seized him and he would not have known the difference. His laughter rose to a promising falsetto, and it filled the room with a much-deserved lightness. Enjolras, for his part, looked smug.

“It is good to know that my humour has improved,” he said over a Combeferre at his unknowing mercy.

“Your humour?” —Combeferre’s voice cracked— “Pardieu!” A voice master would have told him to work on his breath control, but at that moment, there was not a drop of control that could be held onto.

Several moments later, and a much-needed glass of water, Combeferre had begun to recover at last. The tremors had disappeared, and despite the continued lack of solution to his problem, his mood, much like Enjolras’s “humour”, had improved.

“I must speak with Courfeyrac immediately,” Combeferre said with resolve. A glint had appeared in his eyes, one that was not caused by his spectacles. “In fact, I am looking forward to it.”

At this, it was Enjolras’s turn to be confused. “Have you changed your mind about the waistcoats?”


End file.
